


Not You

by claro



Series: And Yet Not [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Drug Abuse, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Omegaverse, Smut, did i mention the angst, dimmock - Freeform, fun and games and crime, minor minor role for victor trevor, mystrade, oh dear lord the angst, oh lord the mystrade, some yelling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-04-03 19:18:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4112065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claro/pseuds/claro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, this is going to be much shorter than the last couple of stories in this series - I swear!!! It's mostly dealing with angst and relationship and personal stuff so it won't have as much canon fodder as the last couple of stories, but it will have more fun - like Not Mine - I appreciate I got a bit serious with Not Us, but, well, here's the first tiny chapter - sorry it's short, but if I don't post it today then I'll just procrastinate with writing more of it. It will probably help if you read the reSt of the series first.</p><p>also remember that you can always keep up with me and my work - both fan and professional over at www.claire writeswords.WordPress.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh guys - I accidentally posted a bit of another wok here and didn't even link it through. i'm such an idiot. am uploading the right chapter of the right work now. so sorry.

Gregory Lestrade never called Mycroft out of meetings, occasionally he would interrupt them with an inappropriately timed email or text, usually of a sexual or suggestive nature (Mycroft was building up quick the collection of photographs of Gregory's cock - but at least his husband had stopped ccing Anthea into the emails) so when Anthea appeared in the doorway with a grim look on her face, Mycroft was immediately on alert.

'DI Lestrade called,' she said quietly as soon as Mycroft closed the door, 'There's been an...incident at Baker Street.'

'Sherlock?'

Anthea nodded and bit her lip, then handed him a still from a CCTV camera which showed the front door of 221B. On the pavement outside his younger brother laying in a pool of blood.

#

Baker Street was cordoned off and a dozen officers from Scotland Yard Homicide division were milling around, muttering darkly. He couldn't see Lestrade, but he could see that the door to 221B was open and there was shouting coming from the open windows upstairs.

Anthea dragged him past the screens which had been erected just below them to shield onlookers from the sight, and Mycroft had to force himself not to look as he went through the door and mechanically climbed the wooden stairs, Anthea remaining at the bottom, guarding the entrance.

As he climbed, his legs a dead weight, the voices upstairs grew clearer and he could hear John Watson shouting hysterically.

'No, I will NOT calm down!'

Oh Jesus, Mycroft thought. Not again. John can't have witnessed that again. It wasn't fair.

'Mycroft!' Gregory lurched forward and wrapped him in a tight embrace before steering him to the sofa and lowering him down to a sitting position.

John was pacing the room, his face white and his whole body trembling.

'What...?' was all Mycroft could manage, 'When?'

Gregory shook his head, still not letting go of him.

'It's...it's not what you think, Myc,' he said softly.

'No,' John roared, 'It's worse!'

'Gregory?'

The DI took a deep breath and rocked back on his heels slightly, looking up at his husband.

'Well,' he began, 'It seems that Sherlock was trying a new experiment.'

They both ignored the snort from John.

'Did he fall?' Mycroft had to know, 'Or did he-'

'Jump?' John snarled, his eyes flashing, 'No. No. He didn't _jump._ Not this time.'

'He-he fell?'

Gregory shifted, 'Not exactly.'

'I don't understand.'

'Well,' Gregory glanced at John before continuing, 'It seems that Sherlock was trying some experiment on social responsibility.'

'On what?'

John turned at the window, which was still open, the net curtains fluttering in the breeze, 'He wanted to see how long it would take someone to report a crime.'

'I don't-'

'So,' John's voiced pitched erratically, 'He lay down on the footpath in a puddle of pigs blood to see how long it would take a passer by to call for help.'

In the silence that followed, Mycroft's ears rang and he swayed slightly, shocking into speechlessness for the second time in half an hour.

Gregory took a deep breath and somehow Mycroft knew there was worse to come.

'Thing is,' the DI said, 'He forgot John was on a half-day, and so when John was the one to find him, well, let's just say things got a bit out of hand - old memories, you know.'

'You didn't kill him?'

John's expression darkened even further, and said very clearly that he would like to.

'No,' Gregory took both of Mycroft's hands in his, 'He's fine. He's in the bedroom.'

'Sulking?'

'Not exactly,' there was a dark mirth in John's voice that sent a shiver of dread through Mycroft.

'John knocked him out and then duct taped him to the wall.'

Mycroft blinked twice.

'Pardon?'

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To make up for my stupidity and to keep the fun of this piece for a little while longer, here's another, albeit still shortish chapter for ya'll. I don't know how many more I'll be able to post today - I'm at my folks and my connection is really slow and the crumblies keep looking over my shoulder and asking what I am typing and I get strangely uncomfortable at typing smut while my mother can read it.

Despite himself, and despite the masses of paperwork that Sherlock's little stunt was going to mean for him and his team, he couldn't help be impressed that John had managed to affix the other man to the wall like he had.

His arms, legs and body had been neatly and methodically strapped to the wall with duct tape (and Greg would love to be a fly on the wall when Mrs Hudson found out about that) and then another strip over Sherlock's mouth, mercifully blocking out the sound of the man's ranting. All that could be heard was a muffled stream of abuse which stopped when John pointed his finger warningly at the detective.

Even Mycroft seemed to approve, albeit only Greg could possibly tell that.

All in all though, it was a strangely satisfying experience to watch on as Sherlock hung helpless.

'Mrs Hudson will be most displeased at the state of her décor,' Mycroft observed dryly, causing Sherlock to narrow his eyes at his brother.

John smirked, 'It's okay, Sherlock will be paying for it.'

Sherlock gave a whine that sounded strangely like, 'Science, John.'

'How long are you going to leave him up there?' Greg asked.

John shrugged, 'I don't know. What day is it?'

#

'Do you need a lift back to work?'  Mycroft paused on the footpath to watch the last squad car pull away from the scene, leaving only the forensics team packing up their van.

'I can get a lift with Anderson,' Greg hated to take Mycroft out of his way. And, honestly, he felt like a real poncey fraud when he rolled up at work in one of Mycroft's cars. It had been bad enough when the lasts at the Yard discovered he had bonded to, using one of the more polite terms, some posh bloke, and moved in with him to his opulent house in Mayfair. There had been a definite sense that a lot of the team thought that Greg had lost sight of where he had come from, and it had only made him more determined to prove that he was as grounded as ever. In fact, if nothing, he was MORE grounded and focused on his work than he ever had been, the need to prove his worth overwhelming at times. But he was more than just some rich bloke's bit of rough, and, despite Mycroft dropping several hints, Greg refused to be a kept man. He's worked damn hard to get where he was, and he wasn't going to allow anyone to say it was because of Mycroft.

'Gregory, would you mind awfully if I asked that you didn't?' Mycroft sighed slightly, and then cut Greg off before he could say anything else, 'I'm not trying to bully you,' he said, reading Greg's mind, 'It's for purely selfish reasons. Anderson's van smells rather vile, and it tends to cling, and I'm the one who will be sleeping beside you, and I'd rather not share that space with chemicals and the aroma of Mr Anderson's cologne.'

Mycroft had the decency to try and look at least a little wretched, but behind him Anthea was laughing silently, and Greg felt his mouth twitch at the corner.

'Alright Mr Smooth Talker. But you can buy me lunch on the way.'

#

John was getting a grim sort of satisfaction out of the forced silence in the flat. The clean up crew had been out and the last traces of pigs blood were gone from the footpath, the police cordons removed like nothing had ever happened.

But John couldn't shake that image of Sherlock on the ground. Stupid, inconsiderate...he broke off, clenching his jaw and closing his eyes, fighting to regain his Captain Watson composure. But all he could see was Sherlock on the roof of Bart's. He'd never been able to shake that day, not completely. And then to come home and find him once more on the ground, surrounded by blood....

A sob escaped him before he could stop it, and he stood up too quickly, suddenly needing to see Sherlock again, needing to see that he was really there, even if he was suspended slightly from the wall.

When he pushed open the bedroom door, Sherlock's gaze flicked over to him, his aqua eyes darkening with unconcealed annoyance that somehow made John feel just a little bit better, and brought the anger back to the surface rather than the heart stopping fear that had consumed him in those seconds as he ran across the street.

Sherlock, he realised would never fully understand what that had felt like, to see that again, to relive the worst moment of your life all over again simply because you're stupid flatmate hadn't the sense to conduct his 'experiment' anywhere else but on his own front step.

Jesus, thank God Mrs Hudson hadn't found him. John was sure the woman's heart would finally give out, fuck knows his own had been a pretty close call.

When Sherlock started squawking something behind the tape, John stepped back into the living room and pulled the door almost closed behind him. He moved restlessly though the flat, keeping the anger at the front of his mind to prevent drowning in all the other emotions that were threatening to spill over. He thought back to those bleak months after Sherlock left, and he knew that Sherlock had experienced something similar when he came back and John had bonded with Mary, and although he knew that Sherlock felt the pain, John didn't think that Sherlock had ever really understood the _fear_ that John lived with even now. And John didn't think he had a way to make Sherlock understand that element.

Then his eyes lit on something across the room, and he realised that perhaps he could make Sherlock understand what it was like to be helpless and frightened.

#

Sherlock struggled vainly against the tape holding him to the wall, part of him wondering if he could persuade John to partake in this activity again but in slightly different circumstances. As he allowed his mind to follow the possible scenarios that might permit, he heard a sound that stopped his heart cold.

No. He tried to yell but couldn't make himself heard. No, John wouldn't do that. John wouldn't leave him in here while he did that. Not to Sherlock.

For a long second nothing else happened, and there was no sound except the roar in his ears and the hammering of his heart.

And then, from the living room, a long, drawn out scream of pure pain that froze Sherlock in place, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin.

No.

Tears sprang to his eyes. John wouldn't do that to him.

#

In the living room, John sat in Sherlock's chair, and smirked at the sounds of distress coming from the bedroom as he once again drew the bow tunelessly across the violin strings.

Now, he thought, Sherlock would know fear.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to make amends in his own, special way.

John looked down at a Sherlock who was sitting on the sofa and at least attempting to look apologetic. He was clutching his violin close to him, his eyes still bright and fearful, his fingers running over the wood to check for damage.

'Now, do you understand what you did wrong?'

'Yes, John.'

'And you understand why that was a bit not good?'

'Yes, John.'

'And you understand why I was angry?'

'Yes John.'

'And do you understand why you have to go to court to explain your wasting of police time?'

'Yes, John.'

'So you also understand why Greg called you all those names?'

'Yes John.'

'And you know why that lisp isn't working?'

'Yes, John.'

'And you're not going to do it again?'

'No, John.'

John clenched his jaw as he considered Sherlock for a moment longer, then with a sigh he held out the bow and let the other man who took it reverently and began his delicate and intense inspection of it. After a moment John headed for the kitchen, calling over his shoulder.

'And you're cleaning all the duct tape off the wall.'

'Oh, John!'

'Sherlock.'

'Yes, John.'

 

#

 

Mycroft waited until Gregory was out of the car before he turned to speak to Anthea.

'I don't want to worry Gregory just yet, but have you located him yet?'

'There have been rumours that Sherrinford may be heading for London.'

'Does he know about Mary Watson?'

Anthea shrugged, 'Possibly.'

There was a silence in the car and Mycroft could sense that there was more that Anthea wanted to say, but he knew better than to press her on it before she was ready. After ten minutes she bit her bottom lip briefly and then looked across at her boss.

'Have you decided what to do with her yet?'

Mycroft pursed his lips, 'You know I can't tell you that, my dear.'

'A simple yes or no would suffice.'

This brought a small smile on Mycroft's face which slipped away almost as soon as it had appeared.

'There are...factors to consider.'

'Aren't there always?'

'Quite.'

They once again fell into silence for a few long seconds.

'You understand why I can't tell you?'

Anthea didn't look up from her phone, 'Because I would shoot her in the head.'

'Exactly.'

 

#

 

It had been a long couple of week, months really, for Greg Lestrade and his team. They were still working with one person down while Sally Donovan was still working for MI6, and Greg couldn't really complain about that because she was working on the Mary Watson and Charles Magnussen case which was not only important to Mycroft, it was important to everyone Greg held close. Sherlock was still recovering, which was part of the reason Mycroft had been able to negotiate house arrest for him rather than jail. It meant he couldn't go more than twenty yards from 221B, but as Sherlock had already proven, he didn't need to go far to cause havoc. Poor John.

And then there was...the other problem.

Greg had managed to hide it from Mycroft for a while by using other means, but of course he'd noticed, and Greg knew how foolish he'd been to think he could hide it. Mycroft had been hurt when he'd mentioned it, thinking that it was his fault, which both upset and infuriated Greg. For a man so powerful and intelligent, sometimes Mycroft could be so insecure and uncertain of himself. With everything that was going on with everyone else, they hadn't had a chance to talk about it, and now it was starting to loom like a cloud over their heads. And Greg knew all too well how bad things could get when he and Mycroft didn't talk about things.

#

Something strange was happening at the flat in Baker Street. Every time John sat down, or moved from one room to another, a cup of tea would be mysteriously waiting for him. The sound of Sherlock in the bedroom hadn't stopped all afternoon, and John was seriously starting to worry if they acquired some sort of ghost or if this was perhaps another of Sherlock's experiments, maybe he had some project going about how much liquid a bladder could hold before it exploded. He wandered through to the bedroom to see what Sherlock was playing at, and the sight made him pause in the door.

Sherlock was sitting cross legged on the floor, a paint scraper in one hand and the floor around him littered with scraps of wallpaper and bits of duct tape that stuck to his suit. He looked up at John with a truly pathetic expression.

'John, this is boring!' he whined quietly.

The combination of the pathetic expression and the mass destruction Sherlock had caused to the ugly wallpaper was too much for John and he started laughing. For a second Sherlock looked confused, then John reached down and helped him to his feet.

'Come on, madman,' he said, leading Sherlock out of the room, 'I'll make us some dinner.'

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know this fic has been a bit of a fluff overload, but trust me, there be angst on that thur horizon, Cap'n. :)
> 
> This particular scene was one that came following a request from a reader who wanted more of the 'Who is Tesco?' stuff from Mycroft, so this little scene came about.

Mycroft was perplexed. It wasn’t often that he felt that way, and he didn’t like it. He looked down at the plate in front of him while Gregory went to collect the two cups of tea he’d made and carry them over to the table too.   
He noticed Mycroft’s expression.  
‘What’s wrong?’  
Mycroft looked from the plate back up to Gregory’s face.  
‘What is it?’  
Gregory smiled and set the cups down before settling himself opposite Mycroft.  
‘It’s a fishfinger sandwich.’  
Mycroft frowned, ‘Fish...fingers?’  
Gregory started laughing, ‘You do know what fishfingers are?’  
For a moment Mycroft considered faking it. Of course he knew what they were. But then he decided against it. Gregory could always tell when he was lying.  
Gregory clearly decided to take pity on him, even if he was smirking slightly as he spoke.  
‘It’s just fish. In a sandwich.’  
‘Fish in a sandwich?’ Mycroft repeated, the thought slightly repulsing him.  
‘Yeah,’ Gregory picked his up with two hands, ‘You eat salmon sandwiches, right?’  
Mycroft lifted the bread (white! he wondered how Gregory had snuck that into the house) and inspected the contents. Thick butter was melting rapidly against the hot contents of the sandwich.  
‘What is this orange...coating?’  
‘Breadcrumbs,’ Gregory was getting all too much enjoyment out this conversation.  
‘And...how did you cook them?’ there was a sinking dread in Mycroft’s chest as he took in Gregory’s expression and the smell that hung heavy in the air.  
Gregory waited until he had taken a large bite of his own sandwich before he answered, ‘I fried them.’  
There were no words to describe the horror of what Gregory had served him. It broke so many rules of his strict diet, and from Gregory’s smug air, he was clearly aware of this, and Mycroft wondered what he had done lately to upset and anger his husband so much that he would do this to him..  
‘I...I can’t eat this...’  
Taking another bit of his sandwich, Gregory kept his eyes fixed on Mycroft.  
‘Well then, you won’t get any of the ice cream I bought.’  
‘I don’t-’  
‘I thought we could eat it off each other. Naked.’ Gregory added.  
Mycroft swallowed thickly.  
‘I hate you,’ he whispered.

#

Greg watched with satisfaction as Mycroft slowly worked his way through the dinner he had made for him. It had not escaped his notice that Mycroft had lost a lot of weight recently, despite both Greg and Anthea’s best efforts to ensure he ate well. Despite what Sherlock liked to say, Mycroft was incredibly slender and when stressed or overworked he didn’t eat (much like his brother) and combined with his constant diets and exercise regime, the weight tended to melt off him at an alarming rate.  
He’d seen pictures of Mycroft as a child and teenager, and yes, he had been heavier then. But it annoyed and upset Greg that, thanks to his own insecurities and his brother’s incessant teasing, Mycroft still struggled to see that he couldn’t compare the young child he was to the adult he had become.  
In truth though, part of his reasons were selfish ones. He liked Mycroft when he was a little softer, a little rounder. Of course, Mycroft had been incredulous when Greg said so one night.  
‘No, really!’ Greg had to catch hold of Mycroft’s wrist and haul him back into bed, pinning him down and running his free hand down Mycroft’s chest and stomach, refusing to let Mycroft avert his gaze, ‘I love it.’ he pressed a kiss to the side of Mycroft’s neck as his hand reached Mycroft’s hip, ‘So soft.’  
‘Gregory!’ Mycroft had protested, but Greg had refused to let Mycroft go as he kissed his way down his neck and chest, lingering on his stomach.  
‘So sexy.’  
He could almost sense Mycroft rolling his eyes, but within minutes Mycroft’s protests had turned to moans and Greg had felt very smug about that.  
These days sex was more one sided, not that Greg necessarily minded - he loved the sounds Mycroft made and he loved watching the man as Greg slowly brought him to climax. But that was before Mycroft had started to notice the...problem that Greg had been having lately, sex had become something Mycroft wasn’t comfortable with at all.  
Sometimes he would catch Mycroft looking at him with lust in his eyes, and without even thinking about it, Greg would reach for him, not thinking about himself at all, just wanting to please his partner. But Mycroft would pull away or start a conversation about something else, and Greg would sink back down, trying not to feel rejected.  
Something had to give.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go with the start of the angst. Yay! Plot! This is where it will help if you have read the first couple of fics in this series, but I'm sure you can pick it up.
> 
> My internet is down at home, but I've been shamelessly abusing the free internet at the library in our town so hopefully updates will be more frequent - I want this fic done before the Xmas special.
> 
> In other news - from tomorrow until Wednesday ALL of my books are free to download on Amazon - so go knock yourselves out.
> 
> http://www.amazon.com/Claire-Simpson/e/B005GZL5DK/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_12?qid=1442577104&sr=8-12

Greg glared at the man standing on the other side of the desk.

'You aren't supposed to take these off, you know,' he held up the plastic and nylon strap that had, until an hour beforehand, been attached to Sherlock's ankle.

John, who was standing to one side of the Omega Detective, shot his partner a sideways glance, but Sherlock merely shrugged.

'We had an agreement, Sherlock,' Greg went on.

'Did we?' Sherlock looked genuinely surprised.

'We did,' Greg's smile was all teeth, 'We agreed that you would behave and stick to the rules of house arrest and Mycroft would stop you going to jail.'

There was a silence for a long moment, the only sound was a soft growl of annoyance in John's throat. At that sound Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.

'I was sticking to it.'

'Really?' Greg asked, 'Because this doesn't look much like your flat.'

There was nothing Sherlock could say to that, so he didn't say anything, aware that he was still in John's bad books and not wanting to be consigned to manual labour again - John had used the half destroyed wallpaper as a constant, unspoken threat for the last few days.

Greg sighed and sat back in his seat, torn between annoyance and sympathy for his brother in law.

'Sherlock,' he said, careful not to let the sympathy show in his voice, 'In the last week you pretended that you'd jumped from your window,' at that John's jaw clenched tight and his eyes flashed dangerously towards the taller man beside him, the pain still an unpleasant memory, 'And now you have not only broken the terms of your house arrest, but you tampered with police property-'

'Well they shouldn't make those so easy to take off.'

'Yeah, actually,' Greg frowned, 'How  _exactly_ did you get it off?'

Sherlock, however, remained tight lipped. It was John who spoke, but it was to Sherlock and not to Greg.

'When we get home I'm taking all knives and forks out of the flat.'

'I can always use-'

'Do I have to tie you to the bed?' John threatened.

Sherlock's eyes darkened with lust and Greg suddenly felt very uncomfortable in his own office. He tried to get John's attention, but John was busy looking at Sherlock with a hungry expression. Greg sighed and fished in his drawer, pulling out a pair of handcuffs and holding them out to John.

'Take him home and chain him to something until I can get someone around to fit him with a new tag.'

John waved the cuffs away.

'It's okay, we have a pair.'

As Sherlock smirked, Greg closed his eyes, trying to clear the mental image that suddenly appeared in his head.

'Just...just go!'

 

#

 

John was not impressed. He had been called out of work to collect Sherlock from the Yard, and sat in stony silence in the cab on the way home. Sherlock, for once, seemed to realise straight off that he had done something not good, and he kept his gaze fixed resolutely on the window, and lingered in the cab when it pulled up outside Baker Street. John glanced back, Sherlock was usually out of the cab and halfway up the stairs before it had even come to a complete stop, so this was a sure sign of his mental frame of mind. John held the door open, determined not to relent to the large aqua eyes that were looking up at him pathetically.

'Out, Sherlock.'

Sherlock reluctantly climbed out of the cab and followed John up the stairs slowly. While John headed for the kitchen, Sherlock lingered in the doorway, keeping his eyes everywhere apart from John. It wasn’t often that Sherlock looked uncertain about what to do, and John decided to give him a moment to compose himself before John spoke to him. He’s always thought that Sherlock was difficult to deal with, but a contrite Sherlock was almost worse in some ways.

John leaned against the counter and waited for the kettle to boil. It wasn’t only Sherlock who had tried to change recently. After several long and frank chats with Greg about give and take and some confessions on Greg’s part about his relationship with Mycroft, John had taken a deeper look at his relationship with Sherlock. They’d been through a lot, more than most couples went through, and that before he took into consideration the basic difficulties of living with someone with Sherlock’s…peculiarities.

‘It’s easy to fly off the handle with them,’ Greg said, ‘They aren’t like normal people.’

He hadn’t needed to tell John that, but it was reassuring to hear that he wasn’t the only one who was struggling with a relationship with a Holmes.

‘Sometimes they really just don’t realise that they are doing something wrong, and they need to be told. And I do mean _told,’_  Greg had been adamant about that somewhere around his fifth pint, ‘Not yelled at, because that doesn’t go down well, they get all…sulky. And you can’t drop hints at them either, because they don’t…work like that. So you got to tell them.’

John remembered how he had looked at the occasionally hot headed DI and tried to imagine him having a calm and reasonable conversation with Mycroft when the politician was being unreasonable. Sometimes it was all John could do not to punch Mycroft in the mouth – and that was before the man started talking.

So, since he moved back in with Sherlock, and in particular since Sherlock had been released from prison, John had been making a much bigger effort to stay calm when dealing with their issues. Calm but firm.

No one could ever accuse him of not learning from his mistakes. After all, they wouldn’t have half of the issues they had if John hadn’t let his emotions get the better of him and bonded with Mary. Although he refused to take all the blame for the difficulties they faced, after all, Sherlock, for his part, had jumped off a roof.

By the time the tea was ready, Sherlock had moved from the doorway and was moving things around on the desk by the window, still in his coat as if he was still ready to flee.

‘Tea.’ John informed him, carrying the tray though to the living room.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at him, slightly sheepish, and John found himself shaking his head, fighting the smile that threatened to break out.

After a moment Sherlock edged over to his sit, trying to look nonchalant and failing miserably. Sometimes, John thought, Sherlock was like a child in a man’s body.

John sipped his tea and watched Sherlock in amusement as the man drummed his fingers and bit on the inside of his cheek, his eyes flickering over every item in the flat. Eventually John took pity on him.

‘Okay, how bored are you?’

‘God John, I’m _so_ bored!’ Sherlock cried, throwing up his arms, ‘How do normal people stand it? How do your little brains not implode from the sheer monotony of daily life?’

‘We manage.’ John let the insult go, ‘Don’t you have any experiments you can do?’

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John and pouted slightly, ‘You taped me to the wall last time I tried an experiment.’

‘Yes,’ John said slowly, ‘And we talked about _why_ , didn’t we?’

‘I can’t stay in here!’

John didn’t point out that there were times that Sherlock refused to leave the flat for days at a time and frequently spent hours just staring into space.

‘Well, maybe if you promise to do as you’re told, Greg will bring you some cold cases.’

‘Cold cases are boring!’ Sherlock whined.

John raised one eyebrow and took another sip of his tea.

‘Or we could just have sex.’

‘Sex is b-‘ Sherlock paused as John’s words registered. Then he was on his feet and pulling John towards the bedroom so fast that John’s teacup fell from his hand and shattered on the floor.

#

‘Seriously,’ Gregory was saying as he and Mycroft arrived home that night, content after a nice dinner and looking forward to relaxing with a scotch before bed, ‘If he ever decides to use his skills for evil, we are in serious trouble.’

‘Good job you have me to fight the good fight.’

‘You’re my very own Batman,’ Gregory kissed Mycroft’s temple.

‘Who?’

‘Bat-you can’t be serious? You don’t know who Batman is?’

But Mycroft just looked blank.

‘What did you do with your childhood?’ Gregory laughed, opening the door to the living room.

‘He brooded in his room and ate his weight in cake.’

They both froze at the sound of the strange voice in their house, although Mycroft noticed how Gregory’s hand was already moving towards the gun holster he had taken to wearing in recent months.

‘Oh,’ the smooth voice said, ‘Don’t be so dramatic. Honestly. It must be something in the genes.’

Mycroft put a steadying hand on Gregory’s arm and stepped past him.

‘Hello, Sherrinford.’

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the worst person in the world - I didn't realise how it had been since I updated this -I promise I haven't forgotten about it, I just haven't been posting as I've been writing and it sort of got lost in the ether for a while as real life happened.

Even if Greg had never seen or heard of Sherrinford Holmes, he would have known straight away that he was Mycroft's brother. But, and perhaps he was biased, Sherrinford lacked something that Mycroft didn't. Physically similar, Mycroft had an air about him that promised power and sex. Sherrinford did well to try and produce similar, but there was something about him that Greg didn't like.  
In the silence, Greg watched Mycroft and his brother exchange looks, and then Mycroft spoke slowly and calmly.  
'Would you mind excusing us for a moment, Gregory.'  
Feeling guiltity for the wash of relief, Greg nodded and excused himself, leaving the two elder Holmes to speak alone.

*

'Scotch?'  
Sherrinford indicated the glass he'd already helped himself to and Mycroft topped it up. Silence fell between them once again. Sherrinford regarded his brother carefully. While Mycroft had been out he had taken the opportunity to have a good look around Mycroft's house. It was typically Mycroft in decor, although it was clear that he had, at least, someone who spent enough time here to account for the novelty mugs in the kitchen and the slightly larger clothes that hung in the shared wardrobe.  
When he'd found the box under the bed he'd been genuinely surprised at the vast selection of toys and ropes he came across. He would never have put Mycroft down as having a kinky streak, but perhaps it was his omega that brought it out in him. He'd tried to find more about who his brother was clearly sleeping with, but the house was so permeated with the stench of alpha that it was impossible to distinguish them all, but that grey haired alpha clearly spent a lot of time here. There had been an old warrant card in a drawer upstairs. The Met. Security then. First name terms. But Mycroft always did like to keep a small, personal staff.  
'Should I inform Mummy you are here?'  
Sherrinford blinked as he thought, 'Maybe best to give it a day or two. Get the lay of the land.'  
'Where are you staying?'  
'Here.' It wasn't a question.  
Mycroft simply nodded.  
'How is Lock?'  
'Better.'  
'Bonded?'  
'It's complicated.'  
'And you?'  
Mycroft nodded once more, but didn't say anything about it.  
'Not going to give me the juicy details?'  
At this Mycroft's eyes narrowed, 'You will understand if don't.'  
Sherrinford laughed, 'You never change.'  
'Neither do you.'  
Even Sherrinford could tell that wasn't a compliment. He took a long sip of his drink and watched Mycroft for a moment.  
'I heard one of ours was being very naughty,' he waited for a reaction, and when none came he sighed, 'I'd have come back sooner if I knew there was going to be so much excitement.'  
'If you came back sooner you probably would have been shot.'  
'And what of darling Anthea? Pining for me?'  
'Not in the slightest.'  
'So where are you keeping our Mary then? She went right under the radar.'  
There was a change that came over Mycroft's face then, something painful and deep that Sherrinford struggled to comprehend.  
'What happened to Mary? Mycroft?'  
'Mary is in a secure facilty.'  
'Look, I might not be able to read minds like you and Lock, but I can tell that there's more going on that you want me to know.'  
'Correct.' Mycroft said simply and left it at that.  
Sherrinford sighed and stood up, 'Which room is mine?'  
'Left hand side.'  
'I don't suppose there's any chance of a pardon?'  
Mycroft turned sad eyes towards him then, 'None at all.'

*

'Do you want to talk about it?' Gregory was already in bed, book in hand, when Mycroft climbed the stairs.  
'Tomorrow,' he said, slipping in beside his husband.  
'Okay,' Gregory set down his book and pulled him close, wrapping an arm around him and breathing in the familiar smell. Mycroft allowed himself to relax against the other man, feeling a comfort and understanding that he'd never in his life thought he would feel. And to think he'd nearly thrown it all away...  
'Stop thinking so loudly,' Gregory whispered against his hair, making Mycroft smile, 'And go to sleep. It's going to be a long day tomorrow, isn't it?'  
'I'm afraid so.'  
'He's not going to murder us in our sleep is he?'  
'Doubtful.'  
Gregory let out a huff of breath, 'Comforting, Myc.'

*

Mycroft blinked awake hours later, senses on hyperalert for a sound that had woken him from sleep. He sat up in the darkness, hand reaching for the bedside drawer where he knew there was a gun and his phone. In the darkness Gregory shifted, lifted his head and then dropped it back onto the pillow with a groan.  
'What is it with your brother's and our bedroom?'  
'Sherrinford?' Mycroft flicked the bedside lamp on and glared at his brother, who was standing in the far corner of the room, watching the pair in their bed, a slight snarl of disgust on his face.  
'He knows?'  
'Of course he knows,' Mycroft closed the drawer again, 'What do you want?'  
'I came to talk. Didn't expect to catch you in bed with him.'  
'Fuck off,' was muttered somewhere deep in the pillows, 'Be insulting tomorrow.'  
'Cheating was never your style, Mycroft?'  
'Cheating?' at this Gregory lifted his head again, but instead of looking confused, Mycroft looked furious.  
'I think you should leave now,' he said in a cold tone.  
'What would your omega say?' There was a taunting in Sherrinfod's voice that they heard all too often in Sherlock's, and it grated on Mycroft.  
'I don't have an omega.'  
'You're bonded. Wedding ring too, so clearly serious. Male by the clothes around the house, unless you've suddenly taken up sport. But here you are in bed with your secuirty staff? That's a bit hypocritical, I must say.'  
There was a rustle beside him and Gregory held up one hand to show off his wedding ring, 'He's married to me, you dick.'  
There was silence as Sherrinford processed this new information.  
'You married...an alpha?' that laughing tone was back, but it was tinged with something more sinister now, 'Do people know about this? Jesus, what did Mummy say?'  
'Mummy adores me,' Gregory said, retreating back to the warmth of the quilt and closing his eyes.  
Sherrinford gave an indigant scoff, but remained starting at his brother.  
'A real deviant,' he smirked, 'Well, it all makes so much more sense now.'  
At this Gregory lost patience and once again lifted his head.  
'Listen, I have to get up in two hours and go to work where no likely your little brother has created a massive headache for me, and before that I want to do sinful things to this brother of yours, so if you could just fuck off and be annoying tomorrow I would really appreciate it.'  
At this Sherrinford shot them one last glare and then flounced out of the room, leaving the door open behind him. Mycroft sighed and turned off the light, once again laying down beside Gregory.


End file.
